Roger gave the order to admit the refugees and, after hesitating a moment, also ordered the sounding of the alarm to call the garrison to the walls. The men stared at him in shock, but then one of them grabbed the bell cord and began vigorously ringing the heavy brass bell on the Gaza barbican with all his might. The sound seemed paltry in the vastness of the night, but it was quickly answered by the bells on the other gates—and slowly, haphazardly, as priests and deacons were roused from their sleep, the bells of the city’s churches took up the clangor. Within minutes St. Paul’s added its deep, heavy voice to the chorus of bells, and St. Mary’s, the main Orthodox church, seemed to be competing for the loudest clang.
The sound brought Balian from his sleep with a start, trying to remember what saint’s day it was. Then he registered that it was pitch dark, and he sat bolt upright in his bed as he realized the bells could only be ringing alarm. He had been Constable of Ascalon for fifteen months now, but this was the first time he had heard the bells rung in earnest. He flung off the light covers and jumped out of bed. “Arms! Bring my arms!” he shouted at a bewildered Dawit, just dragging himself out of his own sleep.
Balian flug off his nightshirt and grabbed his braies. He pulled them on and tied the cord, while Daniel stumbled to his feet to bring him his shirt. Balian pulled this over his head and snapped his fingers for his hose, which Daniel brought and helped him draw on and make fast to his braies. Balian was already in his gambeson and stuffing his feet into knee-high suede boots by the time a servant knocked on the door, shouting: “Sir Balian! Sir Balian! Sergeant Shoreham requests your presence at the Gaza Gate!”
“I’m coming!” Balian answered, and bent so Dawit could slip his hauberk over his head. He pushed his arms through the slack chainmail sleeves while Daniel waited with his surcoat. He pulled this on, grabbed his sword from Dawit’s outstretched arms, and selected the lighter, open-faced crevelier rather than the heavy helm Daniel offered him. Finished at last, he ordered his squires to dress themselves, wake Sir Walter, and join him on the Gaza Gate.
By the time Balian reached the Gaza Gate, the number of refugees had swollen to nearly a hundred, and the ten Hospitaller knights had also mustered on foot. “They’re saying Salah-ad-Din is on the move with his entire army!” one of the Hospitallers called out to Balian as the latter jumped down from Jupiter to mount the stairs onto the barbican.
Balian handed his reins to one of the Hospitallers, asking: “How far away is he supposed to be?”
“Not more than twelve miles, they say. Most of these people fled early in the morning and have been making for Ascalon all day.”
“That would mean he’s marched past the Templar castle at Gaza,” Balian countered.
“These people are reporting one hundred thousand soldiers with Salah-ad-Din; the Templars only have five hundred fighting men at Gaza. Even they wouldn’t be mad enough to attack against those odds.”
“These people are panicked refugees. I’ll believe this is Salah-ad-Din’s whole army, and not just a raid, when I have better evidence than the panicked claims of fleeing peasants. How soon can you be ready to ride?” he asked the Hospitaller.
The man glanced back at his troops and then replied, “Ten minutes.”
“Good. Make ready,” Balian ordered (although he had no right to do so), and then plunged into the darkness of the narrow spiral stairwell leading up to the ramparts of the barbican.
When Balian stepped out of the stairwell onto the roof of the barbican, he quickly counted double the number of men usually stationed there, and recognized George Smith and Joachim Zimmermann among them. They were wearing leather jacks with hoods and had swords at their hips. Just as Roger had promised, it wasn’t just the garrison that had responded to the clanging of the bells.
Roger caught sight of Balian and went over to him. “You’ve seen the refugees, my lord? They’re saying Salah-ad-Din is on the march with his whole army.”
“What makes you think this is an invasion and not a raid?”
“I don’t know, sir. I would just rather be safe than sorry.”
Balian nodded his approval, but his guts were twisting themselves in knots. Salah-ad-Din had assembled his army to counter a threat posed by a Byzantine fleet sent to support the troops of the Count of Flanders and the Army of Jerusalem, but Flanders had quarreled with the Byzantines (ignoring Zoë’s advice, she confided in him), and now the Byzantine fleet had withdrawn and the Count of Flanders had gone campaigning in the north. This left Salah-ad-Din with his assembled forces on the southern border of the Kingdom at a time when it was virtually denuded of troops. The Saracens would be mad not to take advantage of the situation and attack, Balian thought as he followed Roger to the parapet. And Ascalon made the most tempting target. The Sultan must be itching to take it back and regain a base for his own fleet.
“There! Do you see the pinpoints of light on the horizon?” Roger broke into his thoughts.
Balian had to look very hard, but then he nodded. “Burning villages?”
“That’s my guess, my lord.”
Balian nodded again. “Roger, I want you to put the city on the defensive.”
“Yes, my lord, that’s what we’ve done.”
“Yes. What I meant is: I want you to take command of the defense.”
“But, my lord—”
Balian held up his hand and turned to Walter, Dawit, and Daniel, who had just arrived together. “Dawit, tack up Gladiator—with battle gear, the chain reins—and bring him here.”
“Do you need your lance and helmet, sir?” Daniel asked with breathless excitement.
“Yes.”
“You aren’t going out there, my lord!” Roger gasped.
“The Hospitallers and I will ride reconnaissance,” Balian answered.
“Then I need to mount up, too,” Walter declared and turned to fetch his own horse, but Balian stopped him.
“I want you to stay here, but ready to ride to Jerusalem as soon as we have a better estimate of the size of Salah-ad-Din’s forces. The King knows you, Walter,” Balian cut off his protest firmly. “He’ll give your word more credence than that of any other messenger I can send.”
“Yes, my lord.” Walter accepted the decision, part of him relieved to be spared the prospect of battle; he knew his own limitations as a warrior and gave himself only moderate chances of survival in an engagement.
“Take Jupiter; he’s faster and in better condition than your stallion. Take plenty of water and food with you and be prepared to ride without halting, just resting at a walk. Which means, try to get some sleep now so you’re as rested as possible when I return with instructions.”
“Yes, sir.” Walter was beginning to grasp the significance of the role Balian had given him, and it filled him with both pride and trepidation. He must not fail to reach Jerusalem in the shortest possible time, nor fail to convince the King of the earnestness of the situation.
Balian turned back to Roger, who looked very grim. “Have Father Laurence see that the refugees are put up in the caravansaries, hospices, and churches, if necessary. Tell him to be sure they have plenty of water, bread, and broth at my expense, but no wine and no meat. We need to keep our reserves until we know what the situation is.”
“Yes, my lord,” Roger answered, licking his lips uncomfortably. “But do you really think you and ten Hospitallers—”
“Yes, I do. Be sure you keep all the gates manned and men patrolling between them. Also, set up a duty roster for the volunteers as well as the garrison. We don’t want everyone up here all night tonight, and then exhausted when Salah-ad-Din arrives tomorrow.”
“I understand, my lord,” Roger nodded. He was confident he could do that; in fact, he had an old roster he could rapidly update.
“Good. If I’m not back by tomorrow night, you have command of the city and should send Walter to Jerusalem with news that Salah-ad-Din is advancing with an army. Even if it’s not true, it will be the safest thing to do.”
; “Yes, my lord,” Roger answered, but Balian could sense that the English veteran was very unhappy with the situation.
At the foot of the steps Balian found Daniel and Dawit with Gladiator, his helmet, and two lances. The Hospitallers, meanwhile, had also mounted and had brought their squires, so they were twenty men. “Shouldn’t one of us go with you, sir?” Daniel asked eagerly.
Balian hesitated, sensing that Dawit would be the greater help with reconnaissance but Daniel better in a skirmish. Then he shook his head. “Neither of you is trained well enough yet. You’d only give me something more to worry about. If you want to make yourself useful, be sure Sir Walter has two water skins, bread, sausage, and cheese, and then help Father Laurence with the refugees.”
Daniel’s face expressed his disdain for these menial tasks, but Dawit nodded and assured Balian they would “look after Sir Walter.”
Balian swung himself up on an agitated Gladiator, whom Dawit held and tried to soothe as Balian took the lances Daniel handed up to him and secured them to his saddle. He took the arming cap Daniel handed him next and made it fast over his crevelier, but laid the helmet across his lap, ready for later use. Finally he turned Gladiator around, signaled for the Hospitallers to follow him, and gestured for the gate to open.
Soldiers directly behind the gate manhandled the heavy beams out of the braces holding them, and Balian rode through the barbican. The sound of hooves echoed in the vaulting overhead as they turned first to the right and then, confronted by a massive wall, turned to the left to come up behind the second gate. The soldiers again lifted the beams bolting the gate shut, and as Balian rode onto the bridge over the dry ditch beyond, he let Gladiator break into a canter just to let off some of his nervous energy.
In front of them the road was bathed in moonlight, and the orchards to the left rustled in a light breeze. To the right, however, between the road and the shore, there was a patchwork of vegetable gardens, chicken coops, and goat pens belonging to residents who sold eggs, milk, cheese, and vegetables in Ascalon’s daily markets. People were moving around in these, collecting their cackling chickens, bleating sheep, and whinnying goats to take them to safety inside the city walls. Beyond, the Mediterranean stretched out cool and calm, ruffled by a steady breeze.
Balian reined in beside the Hospitaller commander. “Although I fear the worst, I do not want to send word to the King until we have a more reliable estimate of Salah-ad-Din’s numbers and some better indication of his intentions,” he explained.
“We can do that best by splitting up. Patrols of no more than four men apiece, circling further inland as well as following the coast.”
Balian nodded. “Agreed.”
The Hospitaller turned and ordered his men to divide up into four troops. One troop was to attempt to reach the Templar castle of Gaza and find out what intelligence the Templars had. The other three troops were told to ride to different outlying villages and see what they could find. His orders were clear and simple: “Stay out of bowshot. Don’t allow yourselves to be provoked, no matter how few they appear to be. Don’t stop to help refugees, but assure them Ascalon will receive them. Don’t stop to bury the dead. Return to Ascalon with whatever information you have.”
Balian and the Hospitaller commander rode together along the coastal road with one other Hospitaller knight and two squires. As soon as they had left the irrigated pomegranate plantations that skirted Ascalon, the road led through a bleak landscape of desolate dunes, occasionally dotted by scrub brush or palm groves.
It was daylight before they came across any indication that something was amiss: a dead man with two arrows in his back. He had evidently managed to get away and keep walking for God knew how long before he had been reduced to crawling and then, finally, had bled to death. One of the Hospitaller squires dismounted and verified that the arrows were of Egyptian origin.
They looked around at the desolate landscape. They were in a depression caused by a now-dry wadi. The dunes had gradually given way to gravel and stone. Except for the Mediterranean on their right, they were surrounded by low but barren hills, and the dawn was creeping up on them. While the sun brought welcome warmth, it also exposed them to the scouts of Salah-ad-Din’s army. As the Christians looked around at the deserted countryside, they felt naked. Just how far had the dead man managed to travel after he was shot, and how long ago had he died?
Balian and the Hospitallers agreed to ride a little farther up the road to the top of the hill ahead of them, hoping this would give them a better view into the far valley. Balian decided it was time to put his helmet on, and he took one of the lances into his hand as well. It was not entirely rational, but he had the feeling he was not going to like what he saw on the far side of that low hill.
Just before they breasted the hill, Gladiator shied sharply sideways, spun on his haunches, and tried to run back the way he’d come. By the time Balian had him back under control, the Hospitallers were beside him, and the commander was making motions for them to dismount. Balian jumped down and handed a still fretting Gladiator over to one of the Hospitaller squires, so that he and the Hospitaller knights could approach the crest of the hill on foot, keeping their heads down as much as possible. Suddenly the wailing of a muezzin split the early morning air. The sound was like the yowling of a cat, and it made the hair on the back of Balian’s neck stand on end. He glanced toward the Hospitaller commander in horror, and saw the older man drop to his belly. Balian followed his example. They pulled themselves forward across the rubble and gravel by their elbows until they could gaze down on the encampment of the Saracen army.
By then Balian was expecting what he saw: rows and rows of bright-colored tents with long banners emblazoned with Arabic writing fluttering in the wind. Between the tents the commoners camped, covering the ground like a carpet of moving moss as far as the eye could see.
The whole camp was slowly coming to life as men roused themselves to pray facing Mecca. On the fringes of the camp the horse lines stirred, too, as the horses anticipated feed and water after this daily ritual of prayer. Balian concentrated on the horses. If he knew the number of horse, he could roughly calculate the size of the whole army: four foot soldiers to each mounted man. There were two clusters of horses, and both were too many to count, so he gave up. He had his answer already. This was no simple raid, nor a reconnaissance in force: this was an invasion.
By noon only the patrol sent to the Templar Castle of Gaza had not returned to Ascalon, and Walter was on his way to Jerusalem. Balian checked over the preparations made by Roger for manning the walls, and found them sound. He then checked in with Father Laurence to be sure the refugees had been given accommodation and water. This was less well organized, if only because the number of refugees was still growing, many of them bringing livestock and household goods piled high on carts and wagons. The latter were starting to clog the streets of the city. Balian called on the Bishop and suggested that he and his staff take over the organization of the refugees. As expected, the Bishop considered this task outside his mandate—but he had a vigorous and competent secretary, who escorted Balian out of the episcopal palace and promised to do what he could.
Balian was exhausted, and decided he would serve the city best by lying down for a few hours and resting, even if he was too agitated to actually sleep. He would need his strength when Salah-ad-Din’s army actually arrived. So he returned to his residence, fed himself standing up in the kitchen, and let Dawit and Daniel strip his armor and sponge the worst of the day’s sweat and dust from him, then lay down naked on his bed. The bells of the churches were already ringing Vespers.
Balian woke to the bells ringing Matins, having fallen into a deep sleep despite himself. He sat up in bed, poured himself some water, and then lay back, listening to the deep breathing of his squires and the regular calls of the night watchmen in the street below.
Staring at the vaulted ceiling over his head, he tried to estimate how long it would take Salah-ad-Din to reach Ascalon. Mayb
e, he decided, another day or even two, given the size of the army he had seen—easily thirty thousand men. In that time, Walter could—would, he told himself—reach Jerusalem. The question was: what response could he expect?
The bulk of the barons, including the most experienced and competent commanders, Tripoli and the Constable Humphrey de Toron, were campaigning north of Beirut with Philip of Flanders. Balian was not absolutely sure who was still in Jerusalem—except Edessa, of course. Neither Edessa nor Agnes de Courtney was likely to urge the King to relieve Ascalon; they would both undoubtedly care more about their own safety than assisting Balian. Aimery de Lusignan, on the other hand, if he was still in Jerusalem and not with Tripoli and Toron, was intelligent enough to understand they could not afford to lose Ascalon. He would surely urge the King to send troops. Possibly Lusignan would come himself. But how many knights could Jerusalem spare under the circumstances? Lusignan would have to send knights, because foot soldiers would not get here in time.
Knights were, moreover, what Balian needed. The citizens of Ascalon would provide the substance of the defense. Roger was right about that. Today he had seen them: butchers and bakers, tinkers and tailors, coopers and carpenters, masters and journeymen and apprentices. They were all determined to defend Ascalon to their last breath, while their women had organized field kitchens, one behind each gate, dispensing ale, meals, and good cheer.
Balian was acutely aware that these people, with their sober determination to hold out and their practical approach to defense, were a marvelous gift, for he had not made them so. If he were to weather the ordeal facing him, then it would be due to their courage and common sense more than to his own. “So help me, God, for their sake,” he prayed to the crucifix hanging inside the door, a gift from Hugh when he went off to serve as a squire. “Don’t forget your prayers,” Hugh had admonished him, “and don’t let the other boys lead you to commit sins of the flesh.”
Knight of Jerusalem Page 21